Second Impressions
by Lettered
Summary: Weiss met Nadia once when she worked for Argentina, before anyone knew who she was. After the CIA recovers her 5 years later, he meets her again.
1. Default Chapter

**Summary**: Nadia, being in the spy business with Argentina, could very well have interacted with the CIA before we see her in Season 3, without anyone knowing she was the Passenger yet. This fic is about Weiss meeting her briefly before the series "Alias" begins, and about meeting her once again after the CIA recovers her. The first "meeting" (part 1)ended up being a lot longer than I meant it to be—all told, about 6 chapters.

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PART I: Takes place sometime before "Truth Be Told"—the first (pilot) episode. For discrepancies in timelines, etc, please read the notes at the bottom of this chapter.**

**Chapter 1**

Out of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she chose to walk into his. And out of all the movies in all the world—many of which involved Mothra and Bruce Campbell, and so were much better—Rachel Weiss had always had to watch _Casablanca_. Over, and over, and over. The problem was, neither his sister's movies nor agent training really covered what to do with a woman in a tight, skin-colored dress that looked this incredibly _fine._

Trying to look nonchalant, Weiss murmured into his ring, "Retriever to base-ops. All clear." He pretended like he'd brought his hand up to adjust his tie—and then caught his reflection in the mirror behind the glasses and _Cachaca_ bottles, and realize his tie really was crooked. He peered a little more closely at what he could see of himself beside the _batidas_ and over the _caipirinha_. Did they really let him go out in public like this?

Noticing that that the woman in the skin-colored dress was watching his fingers fumble with his shirt in the mirror, Weiss dropped his hands and plastered on an easy smile. The blonde curled her upper lip in snobbish disdain and focussed her attention elsewhere—i.e., on the spicy looking Italian at the other end of the bar: a genuine Costello with white teeth, toned chest—probably mean spaghetti-making skills—and a fashion sense to speak of.

_Hey_, Weiss was thinking in his defense. _I didn't have a choice._ They'd made him wear the fluorescent leopard skin leisure suit. It's not like he usually went out in public with eyeliner on. At least, not until his first big field mission.

And this was it. He'd done his share of paper pushing, desk-work, and the greenie ops they give to gum shoes. He'd done a lot of base ops, too. Usually, he was the van guy. Sutton and Huang were almost always the primary agents on point in the ops Weiss worked; he and Mike usually acted as their junior handlers. Their case workers sat on cushy chairs and worried about people like Jack Bristow.

Weiss wasn't after a higher position. He knew Mike wanted to be the agent his father had been, and Weiss didn't grudge him that. After all the times he and Mike had laughed their asses off watching Sutton and Huang—wearing red wigs and speaking with thick French accents—kick butt in the surveillance videos, there was no telling how awesome it would be to sit in the van and watch _Mike _make a fool of himself in a silly costume.

But today Vaughn was on Dodge Ram ops—as he and Mike liked to call it—and Weiss was on point with Sutton and Huang. It was the first time Weiss had had to put on a different identity and take an alias in a real life or death situation, and he was determined to prove that _he_ could do it, too.

He could, if only his hands weren't sweating so much. The glass of his drink was cool on his skin, but the condensation from the rum was making the thing slippery and now his hands were wetter than ever. Add to that the fact that his tie was crooked; he was in a fluorescent leisure suit, and he had this big dumbo smile practically sewn into his face. That, and the girl next to him kept looking at him like she could tell the effect she was having on him and was having fun at his expense.

She was medium height, slim and delicately boned, but with a full figure and, he just had to admit it, _very _nice . . . hips. There were these lips, too—what was he thinking? All girls had lips—but her lips looked made to smile, not a sexy smile but not a terribly happy one, either. It was a sorta sad smile when no one was looking, and she had sorta sad eyes, and droopy, feathery lashes, and she had a strong vein in her forehead and a freckle on her left ear and—okay. Not looking at the blonde. Not even sorta looking at the blonde. Not on his first big mission. No sir, not him.

Instead he was scoping out the perimeter. The man on his left: not a threat, the chick in the red dress near the door checked out; Costello was almost certainly really Italian and the dude in the corner hadn't moved in five minutes. Weiss did a double take through the shifting crowd. Mr. Corner also had a hand in his pocket and had very shifty glasses. Weiss was keeping an eye on him.

Weiss knew where Sutton and Huang were without looking. Huang—in a green dress that both Weiss and Vaughn had admitted to each other was a distraction in itself—was creating the distraction in order for Sutton to infiltrate the compound to get the device. That is, if their intel panned out and the Rimbaldi device—whatever that was—was here in the first place. Weiss was in on the op to keep a look out and because he spoke Spanish better than the others. Despite the crowd, the smoky bar area and the hole-in-the wall setting, this was one of the sweetest clubs in South America, and they weren't about to get in to it if they did anything half assed.

They weren't about to get _out _of it with the device, either, if one of them stood there like a doofus and let the really really sexy blonde standing next to him intimidate him. She was inserting a cigarette into the end of a holder and lighting up. Good. Girls who smoked weren't hot. Or at least, they hadn't been before he saw this one.

Catching him eyeing her again, the woman in the—really very well-fitting—dress tossed her hair in his face. Good. He liked brunettes better. Probably dyed anyway, Weiss thought bitterly. Probably thought he was trying to pick her up.

_Oh_, he thought, comprehension dawning. _Crap_.

The nervousness turned into alarm, and that in turn, increased the sweat. He wasn't the kind of guy who picked up the first curvy woman he set his eyes on. As much as he had been—well, yeah, he admitted—checking her out, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Till now.

Well, why not? a sudden, unexpected part of him was thinking. He was a spy. Girls found that attractive, he'd heard. He could order a martini—shaken, not stirred—right now, slip an arm around her waist and say . . . what would he say? Probably, "I think you're really, really pretty," because that's what always happened, with him. The first thing he'd ever spoken to April First was to blurt exactly that: "I think you're really, really pretty." It was a disease, by now. But hey, he'd still ended up making out with her in his Gremlin in the parking lot. He wasn't a total delinquent. He'd watched his Sean Connery movies and knew a thing or two, despite the fact that Mike got all the girls.

But as cool as all the Bond material he had up his sleeve was, it wasn't Weiss. First of all, he wasn't going to compromise the mission. While plenty of field agents managed to complete their assignments _and _end up in bed with someone new the same night, Weiss wasn't about to risk it. More importantly, he wasn't interested in picking up a girl at a bar in Bogota, nor was he interested in all that spy life people see in movies.

Neither was Mike. He'd asked Vaughn once why he wanted to be in the CIA; "Because of my father," Mike had instantly replied, expression turning over.

"Me, I'm in it for the chicks," Weiss had explained. He'd said it because Mike's eyes were sad, a joke was called for, and jokes were Weiss's job, but that hadn't been at all why he'd joined the CIA.

However, since becoming an agent, Weiss had realized that his tongue-in-cheek comment might have some validity for guys like him and Vaughn, even if he hadn't been serious. It wasn't the Bond chicks, though, that changed his mind; 007 could keep his one-night stands with evil babe terrorists and Ursula Andress's in distress. It was the girls—the women—who worked for the CIA, or were associated with it, who began to make him think being in it for the female factor wasn't the shallowest thing a guy could do.

A woman like Huang—fifteen years his senior; he knew that; he wasn't attracted to her, not really; she was just an example—knew a lot of martial arts and could defend herself, yeah. She also was really really toned. Not that he'd noticed. But she was also really really smart, and willing to risk everything for her country, and able to withstand the worst ordeals and not let it ruin how friendly she was, how feminine and how giving.

Okay, so maybe he'd looked at Huang once or twice in a way he shouldn't—she wasn't only fifteen years older; she was married—but more importantly, he respected her, and the women in the Agency similar to her. He respected them a lot. If he ever ended up with anyone through this business, Weiss had eventually concluded, it'd be with someone like Huang. Someone who, when you saw them at the office or got invited into her home, acted more _real_ than most non-spy "normal" people out there. So Miss Blonde In The Eve Outfit? She could go take a hike.

Weiss grinned and swigged down his rum. The blonde made a disgusted look and picked up her drink, thoroughly annoyed with him by now. Weiss's smile widened. She definitely thought he was trying to pick her up, and was trying to get away from the creepy slimeball with the fluorescent leisure suit. He probably would too, if he'd been her. He didn't blame her.

She moved to push past him—

And then everything happened in slow motion. He moved aside so she didn't have to brush him as she went by—it was crowded in here—and the laser sight that had been trained on his back—invisible to him and the blonde—was suddenly trained between the breasts of that fabulous dress, because she was filling the spot Weiss had just vacated—

And Weiss was pulling her down, because you didn't sight someone in a place this packed until you were damn near ready to shoot—so it was too late for the gunner to re-aim; his finger was already squeezing the trigger when the target moved and the girl got in the shooter's way—and the trigger was squeezing, squeezing—and Weiss—and this blonde who actually really didn't look anything like Ingrid Bergman—were going down, down—down—

The bullet grazed his shoulder, but just grazed. _It's just a flesh wound_! Weiss thought, and then wondered why he was thinking it. It's amazing, really, the Monty Python quotes that pop into your head when a sudden dire situation presents itself.

And this definitely qualified as a "situation." Bullets were flying and people were panicking, and Weiss didn't see Sutton or Huang. "Base-op? Retriever. Do you—" Oops. The blonde was moving under him. "—copy? Repeat, do you copy?"

He got up, half in a crouch, trying to make sure the woman was okay and also trying to take care of more important things, like getting the team's asses out of there. A quick scan of the room only revealed pandemonium. He remained crouching and pushed his way toward where he'd seen the shady looking guy in the corner. From where he was now, he couldn't see who was shooting, so even if the guy was gone, the corner would be a better vantage point. But the crowd was large and frantic and he couldn't see anything—

Come on Mike. He tapped the receiver in his ear. What the hell was going on? "Repeat. Base-op, this is Retriever, do you—" Crap. The ring looked broken; the talkie must've gotten damaged. Either that, or the Dodge Ram op had been made, as well. Which meant Vaughn might be dead. Which at the moment, really pissed Weiss off, because he'd known this was a risky business but he'd always just assumed that if they died they would go down together in a blaze of glory. The picture in his head had been very _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_.

Holding in something very like a growl, Weiss made his way through the crowd into the corner, and turned to look around right into the barrel of a gun.

His first thought was: _where did she hide a gun in a dress like that_? His second thought was: _hey. Where's _my_ gun_? Ooooh, crap.

She must have palmed it off him when he'd fallen on her—fallen on her to save her sorry ass from a shooter, he had to add, as if that was a very important thing to be thinking right now. How had he stood next to her for that long—long enough for his palms to get _this _sweaty—and not seen that she was an alias? He must have looked so green to her. Adjusting his tie? Yeah, right. Maybe if you were five and still believed in the tooth fairy.

His hands went up. "Look," he started in Spanish. "I'm no—"

"Quiete!" she snapped, and he quieted pretty darn fast. "Stay still."

She pushed the barrel to his temple, and he thought it was a pretty good time to stop feeling nervous and to close his eyes and think of nice, happy things. Watching movies with Rachel had always been fun. So had breaking into her Girlscout cookies. The gun was moving around to the back of his head, and the blonde was stepping behind him. _Rachel. Think of your sister, Eric_. He'd always hated her cat. He didn't like cats, period. He was more of a dog person. Alan slobbered all over the place and chewed on everything, but really, so did Vaughn . . .

Wow. He'd never been so hard pressed to think of something funny except when he was talking to a girl he had a major crush on. It's really hard to get the mood right when there's this woman standing behind you, moving the gun to your other temple so she can walk you forward and use you as a body shield.

Weiss opened his eyes. He still didn't see Sutton or Huang—he didn't allow himself to think it was maybe because they were dead—so why not just shoot him? Why did she need him as a hostage to protect herself? She had to be on the same side as whoever had opened fire . . . right?

Blinking, the crowd parted for a split-second and Weiss saw a face and a gun pointed at them. Another shot went off, but the crowd had closed and it missed them completely. Weiss tried not to think about where the shot hit. This was the Alliance. He'd recognized the face as belonging to a member of SD-3. There would definitely be others, and none of them cared about innocent civilians. And pretty soon, the woman behind him would realize that the only people in this room were members of her own team, and he would be toast. Weiss gulped. The crowd parted again—

—The guy aimed straight at Weiss—and the girl behind him pushed him out of the way and shot the SD-3 face. There was mortal body crumpling action, and the crowd closed again. Weiss, momentarily appalled at the blonde's shockingly quick change of alliances, blinked at her. Eyes wide, she turned back to him. Before she could aim at him he was into the crowd and rolling over toward the dead guy, grabbing his gun, and training it on her. But she was gone into the crowd, too, not bothering to wait for a face off.

Slowly, Weiss's brain started working it out. She'd seen the SD-3 agent and taken Weiss as hostage because she thought Weiss was SD-3 too. When she'd seen the guy with the gun point it straight at Weiss, she'd realized her mistake, and shot the threat, not the hostage. So she wasn't SD-3, which meant there was a third party involved, someone who wasn't Alliance or CIA—because the blonde definitely wasn't CIA. At least, he hoped not. They would've told him, right, if they'd decided to send another agent in?

Weiss shook his head. The priority was to find his people, get the hell out of here, and make the rendezvous point. The blonde . . . well, he'd saved her life; she'd saved his. In the end, he had the advantage, because he wasn't going to have to try to make it out of here in a skimpy dress on five inch platform heels.

To Be Continued . . .

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**Discrepancies, etc:**

**Nadia's age:** I figure Nadia's age to be about 23 when she first appears Season 3, but I wrote this before I did the figuring. This fic begins 5 years before that appearance (before the year of S3, before Syd's two missing years, before S2 and S1), but Nadia in this fic is over twenty. As such, the Nadia in this fic is older than the Nadia in the show. My bad.

**Huang and Sutton:** From what I can gather, we really have no clear idea of what Weiss and Vaughn did before Syd walked in on the pilot episode. Huang and Sutton are two agents I created to be precursors to what Vaughn and Sydney become by the end of S2—the CIA's main field agents.

**This chapter's inaccuracies and questions:** This takes place in Columbia, but the drinks may be Brazilian. Don't know the most common covert communication device; this time it's an ear piece and a ring. Weiss mentions a dog 'Alan' in one epi but never mentions him again. Anything I don't know about the CIA I just make up. If you can correct or point out any technical or logistical errors, I'm always grateful and will try to use what you say to make this more believable. Other than that, it's fiction, and I claim creative license.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: The talking characters speak Spanish throughout this fic. I've tried to show that both through the prose and by using a couple well known Spanish words in there (e.g., 'que' and 'quiete', etc). Thanks for being interested and happy holidays!

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Keeping his back against the wall, Weiss began sliding along it in the opposite direction from the crowd, most of which was dispersed by now. He kept the gun wrapped in both hands and held it up against his right shoulder so that he took up the smallest space possible. He slipped into the bar area, and found the door out onto the platform. It was already open.

The club was on the third story—second, if you spoke Spanish, he thought idly—above an innocent enough jewelry boutique. In the briefing, they'd mentioned the balcony over the alley in the back of the club as a possible escape route if the situation got ugly. It's pretty ugly, Weiss judged, and he wasn't thinking about the leisure suit.

Gun first, Weiss darted around the corner and scanned his surroundings, well aware that whoever'd left the door open might still be out on the balcony. All clear. In fact, everything was freakishly quiet; most of the crowd had gone down below or escaped completely, and out here was your normal Colombian alley: the clothesline, a radio playing on a window sill, the heaps of junk in the corners, and the pool of blood with the dead guy laying face down in it.

Apparently, the someone who'd opened the door and escaped this way was not a civilian someone. Weiss just hoped it was Huang or Sutton.

Quickly weighing his options, Weiss shoved the gun behind his back in the waistline of his pants—it was getting hard to hold, anyway. His hands were sweaty and the metal was slippery—but sweat was running down his back, too, dampening his shirt. There was blood, also; the sting in his shoulder was intensifying. Weiss took a fleeting look down at the building to the right—a floor down with a not-so-comfy looking roof. But it had the promised ladder down the side, and risking one story was better than three, so . . .

Weiss had made the jump and had begun scrambling down the ladder when the shooting started up again. Dropping off the last eight rungs, he kicked down the closest door and hopped inside, only then turning to see where the noise was coming from. He took out his gun again and peeked—

And ducked down. Fast.

Crap.

There were way, way too many guys out there for his taste; he could make out at least three and that meant, realistically, at least seven. _Okay, Eric, _he told himself_. Keep your cool. You're a spy remember? You're badass. Your badassness was a legend of the Somerville Junior High hockey team. What the hell would Coach Renfro say?_

If Vaughn were here, Weiss would be making jokes, and that would calm them both down. Moving along the wall at the ready again, Weiss moved through the building toward the west side, the opposite end from the alley, where the front entry should be. Scanning the interior, Weiss realized he was in an art dealer's gallery. There were paintings on the walls. Nude paintings. Really poor nude paintings. _Look, Mike, we hit the jackpot. All the way to Columbia only to find what you could get at home in a twenty-four hour news—_

The guy coming around the corner was going like Weiss, back to the wall and gun at the ready, but apparently not as good as Weiss because he had a bullet in his stomach before he could fire.

Weiss slammed back against the wall, sinking into a crouch and closing his eyes as he gradually forced himself not to hyperventilate. He brought the barrel of the gun against his face, feeling the cold metal.

Crap crap crap crap. That could've been one of his own guys; that could've been Sutton; that could've been Huang; that could've been Mike oh _shit_—

Sucking in his breath unevenly, Weiss cracked over his eyes and leaned over, looking into the face of the dead body sprawled out in front of him. It was a face he recognized, but not from personal association. He'd seen it in a briefing. The guy he'd shot was SD-5.

What, was the whole damn Alliance here? The thought wasn't very appealing, to say the least

Trying not to feel sick over the first person's life he'd ever ended, Weiss compartmentalized. He'd think about it later. He'd have a good long drink and a mean game of hockey with Mike, who would understand. He just wouldn't think about it now.

Setting his jaw, Weiss went on, faster now, moving along in half a crouch. Those guys in the alley were going to follow him and they were going to follow him fast, especially if they had back-up and knew he was alone—another guy popped out, and Weiss was suddenly realizing the benefit of those simulations they made you do in training when the cardboard figures popped out of doors and windows and you had to shoot any moving thing you saw—

But to do it this time, he had to hop out into an open hallway, and just as he was squeezing the trigger he heard someone behind him, but it wasn't till he'd finished the shot that he could whirl around—and meet a semi-familiar sight.

A woman was whirling around at the same time he was, having shot a man coming at her from the opposite direction, and was mimicking his position, arm extended, gun trained right on his face. It was his gun, the barrel of which he'd already stared down once tonight, and it was that same damn blonde. Funny how they kept meeting like this. Except this time he was in a little nicer shape because he had a gun too and it was pointed at her very revealing cleavage.

This time, the girl didn't say anything; she merely stood, arm extended to point the gun at him. The nice thing about it was that she wasn't shooting at him.

Of course, Weiss knew, that was probably because she knew that if she shot, he would too. It was a regular Mexican stand-off. Except they were in Columbia and if Weiss had to guess he'd've said she her accent was South American as well—south South American. Chilean. Argentinean, maybe.

Keeping one eye trained on her, Weiss let his other eye take in the surroundings—a trick you learned in the CIA that his mother would've said would make him cross-eyed. That last spin had turned him away from the series of corridors he'd been in; he was now facing the central gallery, which was large, open, and had many entrances. The girl was standing in the middle of the room, which was a terrible position to be in. An experienced agent would never . . .

Suddenly, even as he stepped back just to be certain of his back against the wall, he saw how young she was. He saw the wideness of her black eyes, and the trembling in her arm as she followed his movements with his gun. _How many times has she done this?_ he wondered. When she'd put his gun to his head in the bar, he'd assumed he'd made a vast mistake checking her out; he'd assumed that she was an experienced agent, whoever she worked for, and that he was out of his depth.

There was no denying she was good—despite what a bad position she'd allowed herself to get into. But until now, it hadn't registered that she looked barely twenty, and that she might be just as green as he—and just as nervous.

This was an advantage. She was in a bad position and she was anxious. When someone—anyone, the guys from the alley—made a noise and her attention was diverted for a single instant, he could shoot her dead and probably take out the distraction in the next second.

Except, when that moment came, he didn't. The distraction came from behind the blonde—to Weiss's advantage, since he could see the guy aiming his gun at the blonde and the latter didn't even know he was there until Weiss's gun was moving a fraction to take him down.

That fraction involved a split-second decision that Weiss was never quite sure why he made. For one moment, he hadn't been aiming at the girl, and she'd had an open shot.

He didn't know whether it was this weird moment-of-trust thing they had going on or a mistake on her part, but she didn't take that shot. Instead, in the next second, she whirled around and was opening fire on the another SD-3 guy entering the gallery.

There were shouts, and Weiss knew that the rest weren't far behind. They were regrouping, and would come at them as a single force. Weiss bent down, ignoring the incredible sting in his shoulder, and quickly picked up a gun that had slid out of a dead hand. When he straightened, he pointed one gun at the girl and the other at the corridor the Alliance men had come out of.

In the brief lull in shooting as he skirted the perimeter of the gallery, Weiss debated whether he should be going back the way he'd come to try to find Huang and Sutton. All his training and good common sense told him flat out "NO," but if there was a chance they were back that way . . .

Then they were probably already dead. But Sutton and Huang were resourceful; they'd probably found another way out. In fact, they were probably in a much better situation than he was now, or at least, weren't stuck inching around some unpredictable blonde who had a penchant for pointing guns at his head and not shooting. A few more yards, and he'd be at the front entrance of the gallery. And the blonde would have her back to him.

Just then, the rest of the guys came out shooting, from different directions. The girl was faster than he thought, pulling back toward the entrance—but she showed him her back. She had to, if she was going to get out of here, but it gave him the chance—

But even if he'd really wanted to, Weiss just plain didn't have the time to take her out, and maybe she knew that. Too many men were swarming through the halls of the gallery and opening fire. If he were going to make it out of here alive, she'd have to trust him and he'd have to trust her for a couple seconds. They were obviously both against the Alliance for the moment, which, in general, was a good thing.

They pushed through the glass doors and were out of the building just as the entire glass façade of the entrance crashed down. Both of them, working on a single instinct, flung themselves against the brick wall beside the crashing glass, where the bullets still ringing from inside the building couldn't hit them. They moved along the wall until they could turn the corner and—

Pause for breath. Weiss dropped the gun that was out of bullets. The blonde wasn't looking at him—but Weiss was a little more worried about the guys coming after them from the gallery, at the moment. Futilely, he gave the receiver in his ear another tap, and spoke into his ring. "Base-ops? Retriever. Do you copy?"—but the ring was broken and his line was dead. He looked around. The street was calm, and the rendezvous was only five blocks away. If he could just—

Oh for the love of—

A car was jetting down the street in their direction, tires squealing, and the shooting started once again. Weiss thought he could almost get used to that sound. There was a crowd still around the club, and open fire was coming from there, too, and from across the street there was yelling—then a Spanish voice right in his ear—

"Cover me."

"¿Que?" he responded to the blonde dumbly. "Why should—"

"Because I have a car," she said simply, and was already moving out into the street.

"Wait, I can't—" Weiss yelled after her. There was no way to cover her; shots were coming in all different directions—and yet . . . some small, remote, compartmentalized part of his brain was admiring that incredible courage. What in holy hell was she thinking?

Maybe it was that admiration, maybe it was the command in her voice, or maybe it was because he was a sitting duck unless she really did have a car, but whatever the reason, he ran after her, hoping to provide the necessary distraction, opening himself to fire even more than she was, shooting futilely at targets under much better cover—

—they do not teach running after crazy blondes in agent training, any more than they cover how to act normal around them when their sexiness is making you nervous while you stand beside them at the bar in your leisure suit—

—and what if she got to her car, then what? The smartest idea would be to head straight west along _Calle Fontana_ and forget about the dupe in the damn suit who was trying to save your ass—again—

A car door flew open next to him as Weiss belatedly noticed the black Mustang roaring along side him. "Get in," she commanded. He got in.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I realize Sad and Green Street aren't the most original street names ever. Sorry ;o) Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

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He transferred the gun to his other hand in order to close the door—and the gun was gone. He could swear he hadn't felt it leave his hand. "_¿Que_—"

"Hold this," she demanded, and let go of the steering wheel.

He held that. If he didn't, they'd crash.

She was reloading his gun while holding hers in her lap. Then she was scooting toward the driver's side door, and only then did he notice the long, deep gash on her upper right arm, leaving a thick dark red streak on the tan leather. Then her head was disappearing out the window. Weiss, trying to steer from the passenger seat while she pushed herself further out the window, wished desperately that he could control the gas pedal, too. "What are you—"

"Drive," she told him patiently, and began shooting. Shots echoed back in their direction. The black sedan that had been screaming toward them when Weiss first checked the street popped a tire under one of her bullets. Then another sedan, and another, took the place of the first, both with more shooters gunning for them. They passed an intersection and a non-descript van careened around the corner, joining the chase.

Meanwhile, the Mustang was careening around with abandon. It wasn't just that he wasn't in the driver's seat. In fact, the singularly bad driving wasn't even completely due to the fact the most stressful and traumatic day of his life was producing such high levels of adrenaline that his brain was very nearly fried. No, a very large part of it had to do with this tangle of legs and hips getting in his way. She was—very curvy.

She showed no signs of focusing on the driving, twisted as her body was to shoot double fisted out the window. They couldn't go on like this for long; as many bullets as she was sending their way she couldn't take out all three vehicles at once, especially since her injured arm had to be weak. Soon one of the gunners would hit their gas tank and he would be dying with this blonde on top of him, which he was sure, despite popular belief, couldn't be the best way to go.

Weiss swerved as a civilian car roared up from the other direction. Heart pumping double time, he tried to keep his mind from erratically jumping all over the place. He was sure he was about to go crazy. _Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road. What would your sophomore Driver's Ed teacher say?_

Alright. Road. Car, car, truck. Dumpster. Calle Verde. Light. Oh, looks like we're not stopping. Car. Mailbox. Cat. Crap, is this what I get for not liking cats? Good, we didn't hit it. Car. Camino Triste—He froze. The rendezvous was on Camino Triste. They needed to turn. Now.

Weiss grit his teeth. This was not going to be pretty.

Straddling the console, he slammed on the brake as he whipped the wheel around and as the blonde fell into his lap. "Hold on," he shouted, a little too late. The speed of the turn threw him for a moment into the driver's side, and then slammed him back into his own seat. The blonde was flailing; shots were ringing out; he was reaching to try to steady the wheel—

Then they were on the road and going straight. There was more blood on the seats and on Weiss; his hands were sticky with it—from the girl, he realized. More than just her arm was bleeding. She, however, was sitting up and pumping the gas for all it was worth, speeding down Camino Triste, all the while cursing him out in low, dirty Spanish. "What the hell are you doing?" she finally spat.

Weiss, for a moment safe in the feeling that they were not going to crash, despite the break-neck speed they were going, looked behind them. The two sedans, the van—gone. "Hey, it worked," he replied.

The woman was silent, and the momentary dead time was almost eerie. Weiss wondered if this was another one of those precious moments in which it would be alright to breathe. "It doesn't make sense— . . ." the blonde muttered, shaking her head, and then, for the third time that day, she had a gun on his head; he could feel the circle of the barrel against his temple. "This is your rendezvous. You're meeting your team, aren't you?" she accused.

She was using her right arm to train the gun on him, her left to steer. Her attention was divided and her entire right arm was trembling, still gushing blood. He could probably grab the gun easy; no problem, despite the sharp pain from his own wound in the shoulder. But maybe because she _did _have a gun to his head, or perhaps because he was just plain tired, he didn't do anything except sit there. He didn't even try to play dumb. "You helped me. They'll be fair. They'll treat you alright."

"_Quiete_." With the hand on the steering wheel she whipped them around another corner, taking them of Camino Triste. The gun, impressively, did not waver any further than her original trembling allowed. "I don't care how they'll treat me. I'm not about to meet them on their terms." Her voice was determined, but underneath it sadness, confusion. Desperation.

He wasn't sure what she meant. She sounded as if she might _want_ to meet them—he assumed she meant his team—if it _wasn't _on their terms. How much did she know? Did she know that his team was CIA? Did she work for a neutral party who would be interested in ransoming him? He didn't think the Alliance would be interested in ransoming him. Those guys were only interested in killing.

Perhaps she worked for a government agency, then? Considering what had happened with the woman so far, it seemed likely. It was amazing how clear his head got when someone pointed a gun at it. "Look, unless you're friends with Noriega or maybe Selena they're not going to care very much what you—"

"_Quiete_."

That was the thing about this girl. She hadn't yelled or screamed, not once. The more intense she got, the quieter she got. That gentleness with such steel underneath it was enough to shut anyone up.

Thus it was in semi-silence that the gun-fired. The blonde panicked, eyes widening, breath shortening, grip loosening. Weiss had seen the black sedan pealing around the corner after them a split-second before the shot, so he registered what happened faster than she did. They were minus a back windshield, but other than that, fine. He grabbed the woman's wrist and took the gun, and she did not resist. The eyes she turned on him were wide, her chest hitching close to hyper-ventilation.

_She thought she shot me, _he realized. She thought her finger had slipped.

Her reaction told him much more about her than working out who she worked for ever could have. Though she had been holding the gun to his head, it had been a mere scare tactic. She hadn't planned on shooting him. She hadn't even thoughtof it. For the moment, she was definitely one of the good guys.

Weiss forced the woman's eyes into contact with his. Then he squeezed her wrist, placed her hand on the wheel, and echoed the command she had given him. "Drive. Before we crash."

Then it was his turn. Somehow, hanging half out the window and shooting double fisted with two guns at guys with assault weapons chasing you was easier than trying to drive with a gorgeous woman in your lap. Besides which, the woman had mean driving skills.

They'd already lost the van and one of the four-doors, and pretty soon Weiss had shot the driver in the third vehicle—how many men had he killed today?—and the car had careened off the road. He kept his head and shoulder out the window, at the ready for anyone else, but after five minutes of fast driving, sharp turns, and no sign of Alliance baddies, he slipped back into the Mustang. "I think we lost 'em," he told her, probably unnecessarily.

"_Bueno_," she murmured.

He sighed and tossed the guns on the console between them, a sign of a truce. She picked one up, eyes still locked on the road. He shook his head. "They're all empty, anyway."

"_Bueno_," she said again, and hit him over the head with the butt of the gun.

He went out like a light.

The Mustang was pulling up a gravelly road—slowing down—stopping—when he came to. Or maybe it was the stopping that made him come to. Everything was fuzzy up there in the cerebral zone and making sense was a little hard. Weiss decided not to try.

The woman beside him opened her car door and got out, slamming it shut. Weiss thought maybe he should open his car door, get out, and slam it shut, too, but it just seemed like too much work. The idea of escaping the inexplicable blonde didn't even cross his mind. She, like the leisure suit, had become a permanent feature of this doomed mission.

Weiss pondered that. Spy shows always made it seem like picking up a blonde on a mission was how it was done. After a few seconds thinking about it, Weiss concluded that the world watched too much Charlie's Angels.

She was doing something with the trunk. Weiss thought about moving his head slightly to look into the review mirror, but decided against it. Soon enough, she strolled up to the passenger side, opened his door, and shoved an assault rifle in his face.

Oh. So that's what she'd been doing with the trunk. He should have known. This was her car, after all. He wondered when had been the last time he _hadn't _found it natural that a gorgeous babe kept assault weapons in her Mustang. Too long ago. Oh well. He was used to the gun-in-the-face thing, by now.

"Get up," she told him, and he got up. He'd also gotten used to doing what she said. Pain laced through his shoulder, but the throbbing on his temple was gradually subsiding. He didn't think he really had a concussion, just a big bump.

She, however, wasn't looking too hot. Well she was, because she still had on that skimpy dress and she had great—but well, anyway, her skin was no longer the rich ivory it had been but now a milky, green-tinged white. Besides the large gash on her arm, she had several cuts on her stomach, blood soaking through the dress.

The wounds weren't all _that_ bad, he guessed. A little rest, some bandages, she'd be fine. However, she didn't even seem to notice. She was forcing him up the path with the gun at his back, toward a bungalow in the middle of a . . . farm? He frowned. Her safe house, perhaps? How long had they driven after she conked him out? Was this _her _rendezvous? Maybe she was meeting her own team. Or maybe this was just the place she liked to call home. Either way, somehow he didn't think there was a cross-stitched "_Mi casa es su casa_" sign waiting inside.

"Open the door," she told him, and he opened it to a large, dusty, mostly empty room. There were some old chairs, a fireplace, a small kitchen area, and a door to what he assumed was a small bed and bath. She forced him inside and then moved around, closing the blinds, still pointing the gun at him. She was being careless, though, because she was still using her injured arm and wasn't giving him her whole attention.

Once again, Weiss decided against doing anything. Even if he hadn't been feeling so weak and addled, he wasn't sure that he would bother any more. She hadn't killed him, every chance she'd had. She'd even helped him. She had, however, kept him, when he could see no real reason for it other than ransom. And because she _was_ a little bit careless, because she was young and obviously inexperienced, he guessed it wasn't ransom. As such, he wanted to know what the hell it was. The curiosity was killing him.

Finally she turned to him, standing near the door while he stood deep inside the room. She brought up her left hand to steady her right on the gun. For a moment, she seemed intent on staring him down, her wide, dark eyes momentarily causing his head to spin again. "What do you want?" she said at last.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **The idea of Nadia's 'protectors' was partially inspired by a conversation with SpySis fans at SD-1. I don't know anything about hockey, but I think the Rangers play for NY.

Thanks for reading, if anyone still is.

* * *

_from Chapter 3:_

"What do you want?" she said at last.

* * *

**PART I**

**Chapter 4**

Weiss blinked. "Come again?"

"Are you with my father?"

"Your . . . Look, señorita," Weiss said, backing up a little with his hands in the air as she stepped forward a pace. "I know nothing. I want nothing. _You_ took _me_, remember?"

"Answer the question. Are you with him? Do you . . . know him?"

"I promise you, I don't know anything about your . . ." He paused, wondering if revealing his complete ignorance was a good thing to do. If her father was on her side, saying he worked with him might cool her down a bit and get her to point that gun somewhere else. Then again, anyone who thought their own father was involved in the spy business needed a turn with Oprah and Dr. Barnett, because it must be one dysfunctional family. "I have no idea who you are or what went on back there," he said finally.

"You're telling me you just wanted to try the rum?" she snapped.

"No. I'm telling you I was supposed to be in, then out. Like a K-mart shopper. No shooting involved. No _you_ involved, whoever you are. No blue-light special; no trouble."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe a word." Her trembling was more pronounced, now, and her eyes were wider. She did believe him. She believed _every_ word; she just didn't want to. This was one confused woman, Weiss thought. _More confused than me, and I'm the one who got hit over the head. _"You're with him," she told him stubbornly. "I know you are."

"I swear I'm not. On my grandmother's brisket recipe, I swear it."

"Then how come you protected me? Why did you . . . ?"

"Call it instinct. I don't know." Weiss shrugged. Saving someone who he'd thought was a civilian who had a laser sighted on them had seemed the clearest, most necessary thing in the world to him at the time. He hadn't even thought that he was risking his life; instead, he'd been thinking about _Casablanca_ and Ingrid Bergman.

Weiss suddenly realized that apart from him and Mike—and hopefully apart from Huang and Devlin—the situation was not so clear cut to everyone else. Saving people was simply not in their line of business. "Look, the shot was meant for me. I thought you were an innocent by-stander. I saw the laser sight and boom, that's the end of it."

"And later?"

Later, when he'd risked moving his gun off her while she had hers (technically his) pointed at him? Or later when he'd thrown himself out into the open to cover her? Later, when he'd gotten the gun she'd been pointing at her head and didn't point it right back at her? "You didn't shoot at me; I didn't at you. Fair's only fair, you know." He dropped his hands and smiled a little. "I didn't exactly have a plan; I was sorta making it up as I went along."

He saw the truth of it mirrored in her eyes. In her glistening eyes. Oh crap. She was going to cry. He hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do.

She waved the gun, putting one hand to her face, and Weiss stepped back. She didn't look quite in control of her movements, and he didn't like the way that gun was flailing around. What if her finger slipped after all? "They're coming for you. He's coming for you. My father," she insisted, not admitting the truth of what was in her eyes—that he knew nothing, that no one was coming. "They're coming for you and I'm going to be ready, this time."

As if she was more ready here, alone, than she would have been walking straight into his team? Yeah, the girl was a loon. But he felt sorry for her. She obviously had some . . . problems. "No one's coming for me," Weiss said. "They don't know where I am. Now, if you have a phone or a radio in this place, I could—"

"No. No radio. No communications. They will find you, I know. They always find me. They've always been here . . . silent, in the background, protecting me . . . and waiting to take me away. I want it to end. I want to face this."

Weiss pursed his lips, trying to make sense of what she was saying. She seemed to think he was someone working secretly—with her father?—to take care of her. Maybe she'd had a lot of luck getting through training so far and thought someone behind the scenes was helping her? Whatever she thought, he could tell she was on the brink of breaking down. Even if this wasn't her first job, it had to be her first in which things went seriously wrong. She'd made too many mistakes for her to be really experienced, because otherwise, she had an obvious skill for the business, even though she was so very young.

And him? To an extent, he was in the same position. He'd made plenty of slips, too, most of which he'd probably never have made had he been prepared for this situation at all. If she was in anything like the boat he was in, today was the first day she'd seriously been shot at, maybe had friends and people she worked with shot at, too. Today was the first day she'd made cars crash. Today was the first day she'd taken human lives, and neither of them would ever be the same again.

If he could make her break down completely, that would be a good thing—as long as it wasn't the ballistic, shoot-everything-in-sight kind of break down and more a cry and let-go-of-the-gun kind of break down. If he could loosen her up, some, wait for the trauma they'd experienced today to catch up with her, maybe he could get the weapon out of her hands and . . . he didn't know. Get a radio or something.

Still, as edgy as she was right now, he wasn't sure he could make her break either way. First of all, he was not in control of the situation. Second, she seemed like a very . . . well, _in_ control person. But there were those tears in her eyes, and these weird delusions about her father. He'd just have to try, and take it slow-like.

"Hey," he said at last, his voice the gentle, coaxing voice he used on his sister Rachel, when she was upset. "Earlier today? You were awesome. Especially in the car, taking out those guys. But—uh—as kick butt as you are, señorita, I was really thinking about saving my own ass. Protecting you? Well . . ." he said, shrugging. He found he had backed up far enough to learn against the far wall, and then found that he needed to lean up against it to support himself. "Protecting you wasn't in my job description. As far as anyone coming to get me goes, I think we'd better wait until these people you're talking about come and get _you."_

She clenched her jaw, her body becoming rigid. "Then we wait," she said.

Weiss listened to the sounds around them. In the far, far distance, he could hear cars speeding along the road, and around the farm, a wind was picking up. That was all. Safe house or wherever, she'd picked a good spot to lie low, and she was actually determined to sit here waiting for the guardian angels she'd somehow dreamed up to come flitting down through the chimney. She could have that gun pegged on him for the next three days and no one would come.

_She can't possibly last that long,_ Weiss thought. She was injured; he could see the lines of fatigue on her face; he could see hysterics held tightly in reign below the surface. The best way to play this, he decided, was simply to wait her out. Grimacing against the pain in his shoulder, Weiss shut his eyes and slid against the wall to the floor. "Looks like we're gonna be here for a while, then." He cracked open an eye. "Mind if I catch up on some shut-eye?"

She stiffened. "You're going to sleep?"

"Yeah, why not?"

The gun wavered some more, and Weiss drew in a deep sigh, closing his eyes again so he wouldn't have to see how loosely her finger rested on the trigger. "It's unhealthy to sleep if you have a concussion," she said, after a moment.

Weiss yawned. "I don't think I have a concussion."

"If you do you could slip into a coma if you go to sleep."

He cracked open an eye again. "Well, then do something to keep me awake."

She looked genuinely confused. And now, it wasn't the deep, soul-searching, desperate confusion she had evinced when she spoke of her father. Or her 'protectors.' Or whatever. She was even cuter, he thought drowsily, when she wasn't being over-dramatically melancholy. He wondered if she ever laughed. "A gun pointed at you isn't enough to keep you awake?" she asked finally, the puzzlement showing in her voice.

"After today? Are you kidding? Does Parcheesi keep me awake?"

Hooking the leg of a chair behind her with her ankle, she drew it towards her and sank down, sighing. She frowned at him and adjusted how she was holding her gun—but didn't stop pointing it at him. "I never played Parcheesi. My mother, when I was growing up in Guatemala, never let me play games."

"Hmph," he muttered, closing his eyes again. "And I thought you were South American."

"Why?"

"Accent."

"Oh. I didn't think Americans could differentiate."

"How did you know I was . . ." He trailed off as she glared at him. 'Give me some credit,' she said with her eyes, and he chuckled to himself. "So, you think all of us Yanks think South Americans and Latin Americans all live in the venerated nation of Hispanica?"

"I once knew a guy from New York, when I studied in France. He thought Bolivia was the capital of Brazil."

"New York? Figures. Probably played for the Rangers."

She shifted uncomfortably, looking down, as if noticing for the first time the cuts in her arm and stomach. She didn't expend any time examining them. They both needed first aid if they were going to avoid infection, but she didn't seem inclined to do anything but sit there rigidly and point the gun at him. _Good, _he thought. The more tense she was, the more focused she was on him, instead of herself, the more she'd wear herself out.

Now, if she'd been the type of broad to consent to dinner and a movie, maybe even a snack, he'd say her odds of staying awake—or staying sane, whichever went first—were a little better. As it was, he was going to have to deal with hunger and nurse the idea that sooner or later, she'd wear out.

The shadows were lengthening in the room, and soon she would have to turn on a light. He hoped she wouldn't. He really was very tired.

"Who are you?" she said, after he'd just started to drift off.

"Juan," he said promptly, opening his eyes again. "Who're you?"

"Juanita," she retorted, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Well, I wanted to be Ernesto," he confided, trying to settle against the wall more comfortably. "But no, they picked Juan. Juan Gonzales. That's me."

"Did they pick that suit out, too? Or is that one of your own?"

Her delivery was so good he almost thought she was serious, for a second. Then he laughed. "Of course it's mine. I keep it in between my rhinestone leather jacket and my turquoise tuxedo, all fashion statements in and of themselves." She smiled. She actually smiled, and he was surprised at how triumphant he felt. "What about that dress?" he blurted. "That yours?"

Her smile turned to a look of disgust, and he suddenly remembered the aloof, cocky blonde he'd first seen at the bar in the club, when this had all begun. Funny, how much more nervous he'd felt standing next to that haughty bomb-shell than he did sitting unarmed before a woman with a gun in her hands pointed right at him. Funny, too, how much prettier she looked when she wasn't playing the pretentious cosmopolitan, despite her blood-stained dress, pale complexion, dirt-smeared legs and seriously screwed hair. Her face looked much more real—well, except she was giving him that same disdainful look she'd been giving him in the bar, when he'd worried she could see how much sweat was running down the back of his fluorescent leisure suit.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked her about her clothes. Rachel had told him once he should just keep his mouth shut in respect to women's clothing; according to his sister, he never said the right thing.

"This?" she asked, loathing evident in her voice. She swept a hand over the dress and tried pulling down the skirt farther, as if for the first time noticing how short it was. Looking at her, his jaw dropped slightly, and not because she was inadvertently showing more leg. Well, maybe it was partially the thigh he was glimpsing, but mostly it was the fact that it hadn't crossed his mind that the woman who'd hung out the door of her own Mustang shooting down armored vehicles chasing them—while dressed like _that—_would ever be self-conscious. "I wouldn't be caught dead in this," she said, giving up on the dress. She shifted the gun in her lap once again, her nose wrinkling.

"You very nearly were," he judiciously reminded her, snapping his jaw shut.

"I meant I wouldn't wear this. Normally. I mean . . . I wouldn't . . . cardigans. I'm a cardigan girl. Or I was. I don't dress like this."

"But you look really, really pretty," he offered.

And mentally kicked himself. Good God, he'd done it again. April First had been the first to hear it, but she hadn't been April Last. And it just kept getting worse, the girls he used that appalling line on. April First's only real problem was her unfortunate name. But now he'd said it to someone named Juanita who had a 47 across her knees and was holding him hostage.

Hey, maybe it was that whole falling-for-your-captor thing. There were actually classes about it, in training. About how to avoid it if you were a hostage and about how to use it to your advantage if you took a hostage. Not that he was falling for her, or anything, despite the fact that she was hot, good with a gun, and a bat-out-of-hell when she drove a Mustang. Moreover, there was this air of sorrow about her, this underlying melancholy, this troubled confusion that was . . . heart-rending, but endearing, too. And she was funny, though their mutual situation had really given an opportunity for her bright, sunny side to show itself.

God, what was he thinking? She must have hit him harder than he thought.

Yeah. That was it. _She hit me, _he told himself, and tried to use that not to . . . not to think whatever it was he was thinking right now. Situations involving intense emotional and physical stress activate hormonal responses. That's what they'd told him in training. _She hit me. _

"Thank you." Her voice was little, but she was looking at him funny. He suddenly realized she was trying not to smile. At his expense. Again. "You were saving that comment up since the bar, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Just never thought I'd get the chance to use it. The line always devastates the ladies, you understand."

"I can imagine." She shifted again and pursed her lips. "At least this thing had the desired effect, then," she said, indicating the dress.

"It's a nice dress."

"I suppose so."

"You got a little blood on it, though."

"Yeah, thanks for letting me know."

They were quiet for a while, giving Weiss's mind a chance to drift. He tried not to fall asleep, not to let the dizziness get to him, trying to focus. Inevitably, his thoughts wandered to the mission. Where were Huang and Sutton? Where was Mike? Were they as bad off as he was?—Worse? The image of his best friend—cut up, shot, bleeding, dying somewhere presented itself to his mind. Instantly, the spinning in Weiss's head increased and he felt uncontrollably nauseous. What was he doing here, anyway?


	5. Chapter 5

PART 1

Chapter 5

Starting to feel sick, Weiss realized that the cuts on the blonde's midriff weren't the best places to be looking to convince him Sutton, Huang, and Mike were alright. He stared for a while, getting used to the sight of blood again, letting the momentary panic about his friends subside. His eyes were almost drifting closed again when he forced himself to say, "How'd you do that, anyway?" His voice was drowsy. "Those cuts, I mean." He hadn't seen it happen. He'd only noticed the cuts afterward.

"After we escaped the art gallery. Before the car chase. The whole glass front of the building came down, remember?"

"Oh yeah. I forgot about _that_ particular traumatic event." He let loose a resigned chuckle, automatically tucking thoughts of his friends away. "I was a little more worried a second later when you told me to cover you when there was no where to take cover."

Her eyes were suddenly sharp, those dark pools burning holes into him. He blinked, not understanding her sudden attention. "That was when I knew," she said.

"Knew what?"

"That you were one of them. One of those who watches me, helps me. Protects me. They usually don't let themselves be seen. That's how I know you're different."

Yeah, she was completely crazy. "_Señorita_ . . ." She looked so determined to believe what she herself had to know by now was a lie that he had to resist the urge to go to her, tired as he was. "Señorita, I've never laid eyes on you before in my life. I helped you in order to save myself. I thought you were doing the same." She pressed her lips together firmly and closed her eyes, shaking her head. Seeing that he was making headway, Weiss shakily stood, ignoring the sudden throb of protest in his shoulder.

"Señorita, I'm not different," he went on. "I'm just a guy. Just a guy doing his job—a job that doesn't include you." He took a wobbly step toward her. Her hands clenched vaguely around the gun and waved it at him, and he stopped. "Señorita," he said, yet more gently. "No one's coming. There's no point in waiting like this. My team doesn't know I'm here. My team doesn't know who you are. No one is coming."

She was trembling all over. It was working. It was getting to her, the excitement, the terror, the physical exertion, the adrenaline. The fact that she had killed—somehow, he instinctively felt that mattered to her—the fact that she had nearly died today. If anything, the loss of blood from her arm could just be going to her head. Either way, she looked like she was about to lose it.

She just needed him to . . . help her along a bit. "So your dad?" he said, after a minute. "He—uh . . . in the business, too?" When she didn't reply, he went on. "Must be pretty weird having someone in your family who knows you don't actually work for . . . who you say you do."

"Yes," she said suddenly, and then just as quickly, "No. I don't know. He . . . I've never met him."

"Oh. So this is more of a guardian angel type of thing."

"_¿Que?_ No. He is alive."

"Oh," Weiss murmured, taking another step forward. The way she was shaking, the gun was no longer pointed at him. Still, it paid to be careful.

"He is alive. I know it."

"I'm not arguing, señorita." He spread his hands and arms in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just wondering: oh, hey, how do you know if you've never met him?"

Yep. Right thing to do. Her eyes were filling with tears, and Weiss felt a sudden pang of guilt. He saw, for a moment, a young woman who simply wanted her father. He edged closer.

"Sometimes," she said, opening her eyes, causing him to pause. "I hear a voice. I hear a voice in my head."

Weiss froze where he stood. Confessions of the crazy woman with the assault rifle? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

But pity stalled him, more than anything else. What had this world done to her, anyway, making her the kind of girl who felt she _needed _to keep assault weapons in her Mustang when she was barely over twenty?

"I thought it was my father . . . " She was going on, her voice thick, her lashes shimmering with tears. "I thought it was him, somehow, I wanted it to be him . . . but the voice drives me . . . it tears me apart." She put a hand on either temple, letting go of the gun for the first time. "I don't even know what language it is, the things it makes me write . . ."

Weiss took another step, wondering how close he'd have to be before he could grab the gun without her grabbing it first and blowing him away. In her state, even if she didn't want to do him in, there was no telling what she would do, on instinct, without thought. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay." In that moment, he loved his sister more than ever for teaching him how to approach a woman about to go off on a crying jag.

"He's not coming for me. My father. He's never going to come for me." She choked on the words, swallowing back sobs.

"Hey, it's alright." Weiss was very close, now. He could touch her shoulder—and he did. He could lean a little and just touch the—

She clutched the gun to her, eyeing him with sudden violence in her eyes, the tears all swept away. She may hear voices; she may be seriously delusional about just how far being daddy's girl went in the real word; she may be on the verge of sobbing hysterically, but she was not unaware. He touched the gun even as she held it to her, gripping it tightly. "Hey, Juanita—"

"My name is not Juanita," she said simply, but there was a tidal wave under her voice.

"I know," he said. "It was a bit of a joke."

He could tell she was done with lying, for now, lying to herself, most of all, and she was facing the bleak realization that whatever beleif concerning her father that had gotten her through this day wasn't based on reality. She was facing it, but much more calmly than he had anticipated. It was like she was just giving up—not just on him, but even on protecting herself, on her life— Her hold was loosening on the gun— "I don't have a mother. I didn't grow up in Guatemala. I never studied in France. I . . . don't even know who I am any more . . ."

"Hey, guess what? My name isn't Juan and this leisure suit isn't mine," he said off-handedly, eyeing her hands loosening still further on the weapon. Then quickly, before she could resist, Weiss pried it out of her hands, and then, before she could react, he placed the gun on the floor. "Here," he said smoothly, pointing down at the gun. "We're not going to use this. Look."

She looked at the gun on the floor, her momentary concern about the weapon obviously giving way to her more defeatist views, suddenly resigning herself to everything. He could understand that, in a way. She had thought he was the solution to some problem of hers—now he was just . . . there. She looked at the gun tiredly, as if it was a foreign object, a misquito, a shoe. He nudged the gun with his foot, and then he gave it a small kick. It spun crazily against the floor, ending up several yards from both of them.

The trick was to play it cool. Act like it was no big deal. Pretend Handel's 'Hallelujah, I got the gun out of her hands Chorus' wasn't playing at eighty decibels in his slightly messed up brain. Make her think she was safe, too, so she didn't completely go ballistic on him. Keeping relief, shock, and hyperventilation out of his voice, he said smoothly, "Now I'm going to look and see how you're doing, here." He bent so he could get a closer look at her arm, probing the skin gently so he could see how big the gash was. "Hold on; it might sting a little."

The woman was like She-ra on steroids. She didn't bat an eye-lash. Weiss, however, was feeling slightly sick again, mostly with relief from having gotten the gun out of the situation, but a little from the sight of the blood. "A little truce, okay?" he babbled. "No guns pointing at each other or anything like that. We're going to get you fixed up, and then we're going to find a phone or something." At her dull look, Weiss tried to smile, and said, "If you're good, later we can order pizza."

"I don't want pizza," she said, as if the conversation he was making actually mattered, as if they were really talking about everyday things. As if he wasn't about to freak out with the shock of feeling safe for more than four seconds in a row today and as if she wasn't a crazy Latina lady who heard voices.

"Chinese, then. No? How about donuts? C'mon. Everyone likes donuts."

"You can't just call up and order donuts in this country."

"Hey, are you doubting me? I told you, I'm going to find a phone, or a transmitter, or something, and when I do I'm going to tell them to bring fifty bear claws, eighty-seven apple fritters and fifty-two hundred eclairs."

Man, the whole 'wait her out 'til the stress hits her' plan? Not a good idea. Weiss was wigging out himself. Swallowing, he looked around. "Is there a first-aid kit in here?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're all banged up and I want donuts, dammit."

She smiled a little, and slowly turned around to look up at him. She blinked, studying him, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're very nice."

He met her eyes and his heart did a flip-flop, and not because his shoulder was killing him. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"No. I mean, you're very . . ." Her eyes wandered over him, as if she couldn't quite think of the word without taking him all in.

Weiss gulped. Something in his body was making itself known that it seemed like a _very_ long time since a woman looked at him like that, much less a woman this beautiful. "Uh, very nice," he finished for her. "Yeah, you said that already. Uh . . ." He bent his head closer to her arm. "I think you need stitches."

"No. I don't."

"Yes you do. You need them. Here, let me get—"

"No!" Abruptly, she pushed him. Oops. She'd obviously snapped out of the making eyes at him bit. She was shuddering, looking at him in horror. Probably because she'd pushed him pretty damn hard. Or maybe because if he had been a sex-crazed psycho she could've just unwittingly made the situation fifty times more complicated than it already was by looking at him in that way. "I'm—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to. I . . . Please. Don't. I hate needles. I _hate _them."

It was the first time her voice really seemed to rise. Weiss shrugged. If she wanted her arm to fall off, fine. He told himself he didn't care—but he couldn't avoid looking over the rest of her. "What about . . .?" He trailed off, gesturing to the smaller cuts on the side of her waist.

"I can take care of it."

Weiss tried not to show his relief. Tending those wounds would mean either ripping up or taking off her dress, and while admittedly, doing both had crossed his mind as he'd stood next to her in the bar, to actually have to do so would be . . . well, to say the least, embarrassing. However, if that . . . embarrassment was to be avoided, that meant that she should be left alone to tend to her wounds. Which, as far as he could tell, meant one or the other of them being alone with the gun.

"It's alright. I'm done holding you up. I won't touch it," she assured him, her eyes following his gaze to the gun on the floor.

"Yeah. But . . ."

"I swear on your grandmother's brisket recipe."

"Not fair. You don't know my grandmother. You've never had her brisket." The words came naturally to Weiss. For him, humor was almost always the answer. Luckily, that didn't seem to disturb her. She even seemed to be on the same page.

"I swear on my father's life."

Whoa. What a way to get serious. "Yeah, but you don't know if your father is—"

"I swear on my hope that he lives. Satisfied?"

"I guess so." Weiss pondered a minute, wavering where he stood. He was still feeling dizzy. "Maybe we should put it away," he said after a moment, still staring at the gun.

"In my car."

"Who's going to—"

"You can. I'll bandage up these cuts and change, while you—"

"Change? You have clothes here?"

She pursed her lips, and finally sighed. "Yes. This is one of our safe houses."

"How do I know there aren't more guns in here which you're going to get out while I'm out there so when I come in here you can—"

"You can check around, if you'd like."

He cocked his head, the cool steadiness of her voice jolting him into the realization that he'd been babbling. "No," he said after a moment, resigned. "That's okay. You're sure you're okay with me picking . . . that . . . up and taking it outside? I don't want you to . . . you know. Freak out."

"Again?"

"Now, don't say that. I think you've done a swell job of not freaking out—you know, for a psycho."

She chuckled. It was a rich sound, like coffee. _Nice laugh_, Weiss thought, and then berated himself for thinking it. Must have been all the shoot-'em-up action today, making his mind wander.

"I swear I'm not going to freak out if you pick up that gun and take it outside," she told him. "Actually, I'm getting sick of looking at it."

Nodding, Weiss turned away from her and went over to pick up the gun. As he exited the bungalow and went outside, he wondered what the hell he was doing. This whole situation was messed up; there were so many opportunities he could've gotten the better of the situation and quite possibly escaped, and yet, he hadn't. And why? Because she was pretty? Because he felt sorry for her? Or was it mostly because he felt sorry for himself, because Huang and Sutton might be dead, because Mike might be dead, because he was scared and couldn't do this alone?

The thought was galling. He, Weiss, was scared shitless.

* * *

A/N: Thanks if you're still reading. :-) 


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